


The Case of the Mysterious M. Aaron Batiness

by PeaJay



Series: Mind the Gap [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John Watson, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Explicit Language, M/M, Male Slash, Protective Sherlock, Recovery, Reichenbach-Related, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaJay/pseuds/PeaJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You may think you know what happened on the roof of St. Barts, but you'd be wrong.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 3 of my Mind the Gap series so I would definitely give Collateral Damage and Return to Baskerville a read first if you haven't done so already. It sort of sets the foundation for this story. Constructive criticsm is always welcome. I'm still learning after all. :) Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review. This chapter is pretty tame, but we may hit some bumpy patches a bit later so I've rated M just to be safe.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> Off we go...
> 
> The Case of the Mysterious M. Aaron Batiness

Prologue

Time doesn't fly now. No, it's like marmalade in winter time. Inching ever forward at a snail's pace. It used to fly. Two years, three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-one hours and thirty minutes ago. _Three years_. John Watson lay awake in bed, as he did most nights since it happened. It had been three years now that he'd been living day to day. Not living really, no. He merely existed. John had a set time limit. Three years - no more than that, Mycroft had said. Now it was time for John to let go and say good-bye to Sherlock Holmes.

People used to ask John what it was that had drawn him to Sherlock. How could he put up with such an insufferable arse? John only realised truly what it was on that day, the day it happened. John was lost after his return from Afghanistan, lost and alone with no will to go on. The humdrum of everyday life no longer held interest as it had before the war. Sherlock Holmes didn't just give John the will to live; he'd given him an entirely new life. Sherlock knew the way and took the lead, and John followed gladly. He followed anywhere Sherlock led and followed him on _that_ day as well. But John had not been quick enough and now he was left with a hole where his heart should be.

John often reflected on what happened that day and the months that led up to it. On how he'd tried to prevent what happened and for a moment it seemed like he had, but it all came crashing down that day on the rooftop at Barts. It started not too long after the Baskerville case. No, not the one John had written up in his blog, the other one. The one they couldn't talk about because of "Official Government Secrets". John almost died on that case, and still bore the scars of his torture, both physical and mental.

Sherlock promised John they'd take time off after what happened at Baskerville, but once John was released from hospital, Sherlock started taking cases again. He couldn't help himself, John knew. Sherlock was bored, and he hadn't had a real case in weeks.

Chapter 1

Three Years Ago

"It's fine Sherlock. Go. Lestrade's waiting for you." John said with just a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"John, I don't see why you're being so stubborn about this", said Sherlock putting on his coat. "It's not like we'll be running all over London. You can come with me. I need your input."

John had begged off going to the fresh crime scene. He told Sherlock he wasn't sure he should be traipsing around London so soon after being cleared by the doctor. That was only partly true. He was mindful of his condition, but more than that he really didn't feel like dealing with all of the questions of what had happened. It was bad enough he was still dealing with nightmares on a regular basis. Reliving it for the members of the MET was not his idea of a pleasant day out. Not to mention, he was just a little put out with Sherlock for going at all.

"What happened to having a holiday?" said John rising from his chair. "We've not been on holiday since we've been together. A proper one I mean. Not like our masquerade trip to Grimpen Village. Sherlock, you promised." John hated sounding like a whiny nagger. It really wasn't him, but he'd actually been looking forward to having some time alone with Sherlock with no distractions save the ones he created for his partner.

"Is that the reason you'll not help? Is this some type of punishment for me taking the case? Really John, I thought you, above all would understand." Sherlock affixed his scarf around his neck. "The case won't take that long. From what he's said, Lestrade has it 99.9% solved already. It's just something to do for the afternoon, and once it's finished we'll have your proper holiday. I promised and I never forget a promise." Sherlock opened the door. "So are you coming or not?"

Of course John was coming. Where Sherlock led, John followed- and had done since he met the man almost two years ago.

Turned out Sherlock had been right – big surprise - the case had only taken the afternoon to solve. Recovery of some art piece that was valued at 1.5 million quid. John wasn't a big art lover so he wasn't at all familiar with the piece or the artist, something Turner they'd said. John hadn't been very helpful on the case at any rate, he was mostly just a sounding board for Sherlock. Something John took to calling 'skull work'. Not because he had to use his brain, but more the fact that he was basically just filling in for the skull from the mantle.

By the time the pair made it back to Baker Street John was so knackered he didn't even feel like having dinner, even though his stomach was protesting the fact that he hadn't had lunch either.

"Sherlock," John said wearily, "I'm heading to bed. I can barely keep my eyes open. You coming?"

"I'll join you in a bit. I just want to check email and see if any new cases have come in whilst we've been out." Sherlock headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. A tell-tale sign he would be awake for hours to come.

John wasn't stupid. Sherlock checked his email several times during the case via his mobile. The fact that he was trying to cover meant Sherlock was currently already on a new case.

John sighed, turning away from the bedroom and instead made his way to the kitchen to join Sherlock.

"John? I thought you were going to bed?" Sherlock was picking through the tea chest, finally opting for Bengal Spice.

Sherlock only drank Bengal Spice when on a case. He once told John it helped him think better, and said the cinnamon in the tea relaxed him making the deductions easier. John smiled at the time prompting a look from Sherlock. When John told Sherlock the reason it relaxed him was because it was the scent of a particular lube they used, Sherlock wanted to experiment right then to prove that was indeed the case.

"John?" Sherlock prompted.

"Yeah well," said John returning to the present. He walked around to the cupboard pulled down his mug and some Earl Grey from the tea chest, "Thought I'd have a cuppa first."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Suit yourself, but John by now you know I don't need a babysitter. I'm perfectly capable of making my own tea and checking my own email without someone monitoring my every move."

John was too tired to have this argument once again. They'd had it many times over their two year relationship. So instead John just said, "I know", poured his tea and went to sit in his chair.

"So, what's the case then?" John said between breaths blown on his steaming mug.

Sherlock didn't even pretend to feign innocence, he'd taught John too well. "A Banker is missing."

"And you care why? This isn't something that normally interests you. Your normal response to a case like this is usually, 'tedious' or 'boring'". John set his tea down and moved forward in his chair. "What's going on Sherlock?"

Sherlock moved across the room and took a seat in his chair opposite John. Chewing his finger he stared at John, _through_ John, as if he were trying to access his mind palace.

"Sherlock? Come on. What's all this about?" John was starting to get a bad feeling.

"What it's been about from the beginning my good man," Sherlock sounded as if he were in a trance.

"All right, you bloody git, what the hell is going on?" John rose from his chair and crossed over, leaning down to peer into Sherlock's eyes.

"I haven't got all the pieces yet John. A few more need to be played before I'll know for certain." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and held it tightly.

John, could feel Sherlock's pulse racing as he gripped the detective's wrist with his other hand. "Until you know what for certain?"

"Moriarty," whispered Sherlock. "He's back."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is up to no good again....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may seem just a tad familiar, but the parts I've included are important to the story, so with deference to Moffat and Gatiss for their brilliance, I've nicked a bit of their work. :)
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat and Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

After Sherlock and John led Lestrade and the MET to capture Interpol's most wanted fugitive, Peter Ricoletti, Sherlock was even more convinced that Moriarty was pulling the strings somehow. Someone like Ricoletti didn't just get captured after 10 years on the run. Not when there were so many clues leading to his whereabouts. Moriarty had gotten away with the business in Baskerville, and he was responsible for John's condition. There was no way Sherlock was going to let the master criminal escape this time. He had to stay one step ahead, but what was Moriarty up to? What did the Reichenbach painting, a missing banker, and a criminal have in common? There had to be a connection if it had anything to do with James Moriarty. The answer came less than a month later.

xxx

John finished showering and was heading through the kitchen to the sitting room when Sherlock's mobile sounded.

"That's your phone," said John.

Sherlock didn't look up - he was too engrossed in the slide on his microscope. "Hm, keeps doing that."

John continued through to the sitting room, avoiding the figure hanging from the ceiling, to take a seat in his chair. Pulling the newspaper open he said, "So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?"

"Oh," said Sherlock, looking up to the mannequin dangling from a hangman's noose. "Henry Fishguard never committed suicide. Bow Street Runners missed everything."

John, nonpulsed that Sherlock was investigating a case from the 1840's quipped, "Pressing case is it?"

Sherlock looked back into the microscope and said, "They're all pressing until they're solved. Plus, John, it was you that said I should keep a lower profile."

"Oh, I'm not complaining," said John. I've rather enjoyed not being mobbed by the paparazzi every time I go to Tescos. So, ta for that mate." John smiled at Sherlock, who never even acknowledged that John had spoken a word.

Sherlock's mobile sounded again.

John put down the paper. "I'll get it, shall I?" A serious look came over John's face as he saw who had been trying to reach Sherlock. Gathering up the phone, John quickly made his way to the kitchen.

"Here," John said, offering the mobile to Sherlock.

Still caught up with his experiment, Sherlock didn't want to be disturbed. "Not now, I'm busy."

John felt as though he were going to be sick. "Sherlock," he began, but was cut off.

"Not now." Sherlock said more forcefully.

"He's back," John interrupted shoving the phone at Sherlock.

This got Sherlock's attention and he took the mobile from John.

The text read:

Come and play.

Tower Hill

Jim Moriarty x.

xxx

Several weeks later, Sherlock was called to testify at Moriarty's trial. It would be an open and shut case, Lestrade said. They caught the man red handed holding the Crown Jewels for Christ's sake.

Sherlock wasn't so certain.

Discovering that Moriarty had not only broken into the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London, but also the Bank of England and Pentonville prison, Sherlock finally put the pieces of the puzzle together and saw the connection from their other cases a month earlier.

Moriarty had to have been the one that kidnapped the banker. Well, not Moriarty personally, of course. He had people for that sort of thing. Moriarty had also been responsible for the theft of the Reichenbach painting and the clues that led to the capture of Ricoletti. It was a parallel to what the criminal had just done. In fact, Moriarty had more than likely used the Banker and Ricoletti for two of the break-ins.

"Easy." Sherlock said with a sneer. It had been way too easy to connect the dots between their cases and Moriarty's break-ins.

"Sorry?" said John tying his tie, getting ready for the trial.

"The cases John, they were too easy. Why would Moriarty set up cases that were so easy for me to solve? The last time we played this game, the clues were much harder."

"I remember", John said-then added softly, "All too well."

Sherlock came up to stand behind John who was looking in the mirror still fiddling with his tie. Turning John so the two men were now facing each other, Sherlock began adjusting John's tie and pulled his blazer square. "Apologies, my dear Watson. I know it's not a game to you, but to Moriarty that's exactly what this is."

John took a deep breath and let it out. "I know. That's what makes him so dangerous."

Shifting gears John said, "Sherlock, about your testimony today. You need to focus. Don't try to showboat. Just keep it simple, yeah?"

Sherlock kissed John on the forehead and said, "Yes, dear."

"I'm serious Sherlock. Moriarty's planning something. Even I can see it. We've got to figure out what it is, and we can't do that if he's on the street. We'll never catch up. We're still behind here and we need to get ahead, all right?"

Sherlock nodded and said, "All right. Let's go."

They made their way downstairs to the front door. John had his hand on the doorknob and said, "Ready?"

"Almost," said Sherlock. He leaned forward and pressed John against the wall, kissing him fervently.

John wasn't sure what was behind the sudden display of affection. Sherlock generally didn't do that sort of thing, not while they were so involved with a case and especially not one where Moriarty is involved.

"Sherlock," John said, breaking contact. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked at John for a few moments as if he were trying to memorise every detail of his face. "Nothing, let's go."

As John opened the door there was a mob of press on the other side, cameras flashing, and questions flying. Neither John nor Sherlock made a comment - they merely got into the Panda and were whisked away.

Sherlock was staring out of the window, deep in thought. _Why did Moriarty let himself get captured?_ Sherlock was still missing something. Suddenly, an epiphany hit him.

"John," Sherlock turned to look at the man seated beside him. _When had John slid so close? When had John taken his hand? He probably should have noticed that, right?_

"What is it Sherlock? Tell me. What have you figured out?"

John always seemed to know when Sherlock solved something. It was just one of the many reasons Sherlock loved him.

"The painting, the banker, Ricoletti," Sherlock waited, hoping John would put the pieces together.

"Yes, what about them?" John stopped talking and took a good look at Sherlock. "They're connected. You think they're connected somehow, Moriarty's break-ins and our cases?" John licked his lips.

Sherlock smiled and squeezed John's hand. "I'll make a Consulting Detective out of you yet, Watson."

"Well, I don't know about that," said John smiling back.

"There's something else," Sherlock rubbed a finger across his lips and looked out the window. "Press."

John pulled a face, "Press? Press what? You mean the press outside the flat? What've they got to do with it?"

"I'm not certain John, but it's something you said after the Ricoletti case that's got me thinking." Sherlock released John's hand.

"Me?" John raised an eyebrow. "What did I say?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just sat, stone still, chewing on his finger.

"Sherlock?" John tilted his head to get a better look at the man seated next to him. John let out a sigh and slid back to the other side of the seat. "Fucking Mind Palace."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a little BAMFy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in posting. Hopefully, we'll be moving along at a nicer pace now. Sherlock kisses and John cuddles for all the nice reviews. Please do let me know if you don't like it as well. Any and all constructive criticism is welcome. :) 
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Court hadn't gone very well. That's putting it mildly. Court had actually been a fucking disaster.

Moriarty was an image of calm, cool and collected, listening to all of the testimony play out before him, never saying a word. John noticed when Moriarty flicked glances every so often to his council, the corner of his mouth drifting up ever so slightly, giving him a lizard like appearance. John wasn't sure what that was all about. Maybe Moriarty fancied the barrister, then again maybe he was thinking about strangling the man for no apparent reason. John figured then again, it might probably be both.

John saw how nervous Sherlock was, although outwardly the man exuded nothing but confidence. John knew when Sherlock was nervous or stressed it was hard for the man to keep his deductions in check. Such was the case during his testimony. The prosecution wasn't doing a very good job and Sherlock couldn't help himself. What made it worse was when Sherlock made comments about the Judge. John watched Moriarty's grin slide wider on his face. He also saw when Moriarty looked down, again, to his barrister. Only this time the barrister turned and looked back as if he knew Moriarty wanted his attention. There seemed to be a wordless exchange between the two men. There was definitely something going on there, but John didn't have a chance to think on it too much as there was a loud noise of the gavel from the Judge.

"Contempt of Court!" the Judge shouted. "Someone, come and collect this man before I'm arrested for strangling him."

Sherlock opened his mouth to offer a retort, but seemed to think better of it and kept his mouth shut.

John simply bowed his head, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and said to himself, "Sherlock, what did I say? Why don't you ever listen to me?"

During a recess, John went to collect Sherlock. "What did I say?" John chided, as Sherlock collected his things and signed himself out of lock-up.

Sherlock looked down at John as the two of them strode from the building, "John, you know I can't just turn it off like the tap."

"I know," said John, "But what sort of impression do you think that made on the jury?"

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face John. "It should have no bearing at all other than the fact that it shows I am an expert on this case and to take my word as gospel when it comes to Moriarty, and convict him for his crimes."

John gave Sherlock a half grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I hope you're right Sherlock, I don't even want to think about that man out on the streets again."

"Quite so, my dear Watson," said Sherlock bending down to place a kiss on John's temple. "I'm heading back to the flat, there's nothing more for me to do here. Ring me if there are any developments."

Not too much longer after that the unthinkable happened.

"Not guilty," John said into the receiver of the phone. "Sherlock, did you hear me? They came back with a verdict of not guilty. Sherlock? Are you there? Moriarty is out. You know he'll be coming after you."

Sherlock had rung off. John knew it wouldn't do any good to ring back. Standing outside the courthouse, John spotted Moriarty talking with his barrister. There was something about the exchange between them that seemed overly familiar to John. The next moment confirmed his suspicions when the two men embraced and Moriarty kissed the man deeply, grabbing his arse to pull him closer. John stayed well back, out of their line of sight, observing. As Moriarty released his man, John could see the barrister was wearing a shoulder holster. They were heading in different directions and John was torn as to which he should follow. Moriarty almost certainly was heading to visit Sherlock. He would gloat about his release, but John didn't think he would hurt Sherlock - it was too soon after his trial, and if he were there Sherlock would be focused more on him than deducing what Moriarty might have up his sleeve next. No. He'd follow the barrister and find out just what this man's connection was with Moriarty.

John followed for more than ten blocks, and was quickly becoming quite winded. This was the most exertion his body had had since before his ordeal at Baskerville, and John was a more than a little concerned his heart might start acting up. He felt a slight flutter, but pushed on hoping the man was nearing his destination. Finally, he did stop and enter a building. John waited until he was certain he wouldn't be seen, and approached the building. As John passed, he noticed a tenant registry and began taking pictures of the names with his phone. He knew it was a long shot, but he did it anyway. He'd Google them later to see if anything turned up. After he finished, John turned to make his way back to Baker Street. No sense pushing his luck. He made it back to the flat just as Moriarty was leaving.

"Hello, Johnny Boy. How's the ticker?" said Moriarty pointing to John's heart. "Looks like the eye healed up nicely. Let's hope the same can be said for more southern regions as well, yeah?" Moriarty winked.

God, John hated this little bastard. He knew Moriarty was trying to bait him into a fight, and that Sherlock was more than likely watching from above. That's what Moriarty was counting on. What he got off on. John couldn't let Sherlock see how much Moriarty's comment had actually affected him, but he couldn't let him get away with it either, he had some pride after all.

Surprising even himself, John leaned in towards Moriarty and said in a low voice Sherlock couldn't hear, "If you touch him, harm him in any way, and I mean even so much as hurt his feelings, I promise you it'll be the last thing you ever do. Do you understand me? You might like to think of this as a game, but I'm not playing and I'll die before I let you harm him."

"Oh goodie," said Moriarty, a grin spreading from ear to ear. "Then it's a date." Moriarty thrust his hands in his pockets and strode away whistling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not one to sit around and just let things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again many apologies for the delay in posting. As always, any reviews would be lovely. Sherlock kisses and Watson hugs for feedback. No beta for this chapter either, so if you see any glaring issues, please let me know. Ta.
> 
> The lovely characters are from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

The next few weeks were a blur. John noticed a gradual change in Sherlock's behaviour, he was steadily becoming more and more distant. John attempted on several occasions to engage Sherlock in sex. Initially, Sherlock gave in but the last time John tried they were mid-way through when Sherlock abruptly stopped, citing a pressing matter on a case.

"Sherlock!" John said, "We're in the middle of something here. Can't it wait just a few more minutes?"

"No John, it can't," Sherlock replied, and he got out of bed and left John to handle his aching erection alone. That had been over a week ago, and nothing since.

**xxx**

It finally became clear why Sherlock was deliberately distancing himself. While at the chip and pin machine, John was collected by an all too familiar car with tinted windows. John really was in no mood for Mycroft's cloak and dagger bullshit, but before he could start in on Mycroft, he was greeted with a folder shoved at his chest. It seemed a quartet of assassins had set up residence in proximity to Baker Street. The fact that Mycroft was the one to inform John meant Sherlock most likely already knew about the killers watching them, and decided unilaterally that it was something John didn't need to know. The berk probably thought he was protecting John in some fucked up way. John knew it was the Baskerville case. It spooked Sherlock even more than the incident at the pool, and now he was being overly protective.

Despite Sherlock's best efforts to keep John away from the case, John continued to follow up his lead on Moriarty's man. After more than a week was spent doing nothing other than looking up the names he'd acquired at the block of flats, John found most of the tenants from the building. Every name turned up a face, except for that of a certain M. Aaron Batiness. John also made sure to check the court docket from the day of Moriarty's trial. No match with any of the names. Conclusion? The name was an alias, of course. The name listed as representation for Moriarty was Bateman S. Ronais, but it turned out as another alias with no face to match. So who was this mysterious man that had carnal knowledge of one of the most devious minds in all of London and possibly the world? John decided to stake out the flat and find out. Sherlock was so preoccupied he never even noticed John leave.

Watching Batiness as he exited his building, John noticed there was something about the way the man carried himself, it screamed 'Military'. It takes one to know one after all. John was sure Batiness was not only ex-military, but as he followed the man he could tell by the way he interacted with others that Batiness held a position of authority, an officer no doubt. This realization caused John pause. He was dealing with someone who had Escape and Evasion training same as he'd done during his time in the Army, therefore John needed to be more careful. It was possible Batiness was already on to his surveillance, and was just toying with him until he could catch John out. However, it was too important to find out his true identity for John to just give up.

John followed Batiness into a warehouse and made sure to find a spot where he'd be completely hidden. Sadly, John hadn't realised how long he'd be crouched waiting on whoever it was Batiness was there to meet, and his body began to protest. Batiness was pacing, not nervously though- it appeared to be more from impatience as he kept looking at his watch. Whoever he was meeting was late. Finally, just as John's leg started to shake from being cramped for so long, a portly man shuffled his way into the warehouse. He could have been out for a Sunday stroll in the park at the pace he was going.

"You're late," Batiness spat, clearly put out.

"Yeah," said the heavy set man, in a breezy manner. He had a thick Northern accent. Bradford maybe, John guessed. He wasn't as good with dialects as Sherlock, so he couldn't be sure.

"That's all you have to say?" Batiness was in the man's face in an instant. "You know who I work for, yes? Know he's not someone to be trifled with, correct?"

The man took a step back. "Whoa mate, chill the fook out, yeah? He called me, remember? I had another meeting that ran over, but I'm here now."

The man's answer seemed to wind Batiness up even further judging by the way his jaw was clenching and unclenching. He was keeping his anger in check though, apparently whatever this meeting was for, Batiness needed the chubby man.

"Fine," said Batiness through gritted teeth. "Let's just get on with it shall we? I've got other things that need tending to."

The fat man stuck his fingers in his mouth and made a sharp whistle that brought four other men into the warehouse, each pair carrying a crate between them.

John could no longer hold the position he was in and tried to shift the weight off of his bad leg. In the process of doing so, he slipped and fell banging against the crate he was hiding behind. Luckily, he was still hidden so no one saw what made the noise, but they _had_ heard it. John saw their heads snap up in unison to his location.

"What the fook was that? You're not fixin'ta double cross us here are ya, Moran? We made a deal. I bring guns; you bring cash, simple trade." The hefty man sounded panicked.

"Shut the fuck up, you fat fuck. There's someone here all right, but it's not any of my men." Batiness moved closer to the door, putting the chubby man between himself and the unseen intruder.

John stayed as still as he possibly could, but from the corner of his eye he saw movement.

Batiness saw the movement as well. "Rats! Fucking Rats? You've got to be kidding me with that fucking cliché."

All eyes turned to where John was hidden, only they weren't looking at John. They were looking at the pair of rats going at it near John's head.

"Come on, let's get this shit over with," snapped Batiness. "I've got better things to do than watch rats fucking all day."

For the next fifteen minutes John watched as four AS50 Sniper rifles were removed from their crates and inspected in great detail by the man John heard the portly man call Moran.

Once the guns were approved of, Moran pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Your Swiss number, be sure not to lose it. It'll be the only one you receive."

"Wait a fookin minute." The fat man shuffled into Moran's personal space. "This was supposed to be a cash transaction. What tha fook are ya tryin to pull here, Moran?"

"I don't care for your accusation, Shimwell." Moran's eyes narrowed on the man in front of him. "Your money is in a Swiss bank account. Take it or don't, that is up to you, but if you don't take a step back, out of my personal space I'll see to it your fat arse will never walk again. You get me?"

Nonpulssed, the man known as Shimwell "Porky" Johnson took a step back, made a bow at the waist, smiled and said, "Nice doin business with ya, Mr. Moran. Have fun with yer new toys." He then turned and shuffled out just as nonchalantly as he'd shuffled in.

Moran placed all the guns back in the crates and had Shimwell's men load them back up into the van they'd come in. Once the crates were loaded, they handed the keys to Moran and left.

It was at this moment John realised he was stuck. He wouldn't be able to follow Moran to his next destination.

Moran opened the door to the driver's side of the van and climbed in, but before driving off John saw the man look up to his position and smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken a bit of liberty with the character of Shimwell "Porky" Johnson. He originally appeared in the ACD story, "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client." In the canon, "Porky" acts as an informant and occasional muscle for Sherlock. Here, he's just a thug. Hope you don't mind me taking liberties. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is full of major, super angst. Sorry, but it must be done. I've kept it rather short though, so it shouldn't be too bad.
> 
> We've come forward a bit in time to the present. (don't worry, we'll get back to the where's and how's in the next chapter)
> 
> The lovely characters are from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Present Day

John made many attempts over the last year to get Mycroft to change his mind. The stubbourn bastard wouldn't budge. Shouting matches between the two men even escalated to fisticuffs on one occasion with John splitting Mycroft's lip along with breaking the man's rib and pinky finger. It happened after John was informed that legally there was nothing he could do, Sherlock never had the chance to change his will and Mycroft still had Power of Attorney. John tried desperately to reason with Sherlock's family, but both Mycroft and Sherlock's mother ignored his pleas. John even went so far as to take them to court and plead his case, to no avail of course. All options were exhausted.

Sitting by Sherlock's bedside, as he'd done nearly every day for the past three years, John felt as if his world were finally collapsing in on him.

"It's time John," said Mycroft softly. "You have to let him go." Mycroft touched John lightly on the arm.

"Never," John said as he choked back tears. "Mycroft please, just give him more time. You know how his mind works. Don't give up on him, not yet. I've showed you cases, documented cases, of people waking up from comas even as long as twenty years later."

"John, you and I both know he wouldn't want this. He'd have been gone long ago if I'd followed the instructions he laid out for me in his Will." Mycroft moved to his brother's side, and in a brief moment of unguarded emotion, he gently touched Sherlock's hand.

John watched as Mycroft tenderly stroked Sherlock's hand. In the years he'd known Mycroft, this was the most emotion John had ever seen the man display. Tears began to well up in John's eyes. Of course Mycroft loved Sherlock, John knew this must be doubly hard on him. If only the two of them got on better before Sherlock…well it didn't matter now, did it? Sherlock would be gone for good in a few hours.

Mycroft pulled his hand from Sherlock's and left the room without saying another word. Apparently, he'd said his good-bye. John knew Mycroft would be signing the papers now to remove Sherlock from life support.

Hope for the best, expect the worst and live in-between. That's what John's mum used to say. It helped her to get through an abusive relationship with John's dad, and helped John after he'd been shot in Afghanistan. For the past three years John never gave up hope that Mycroft would change his mind and give Sherlock just a little more time. He knew it was unreasonable. He was a doctor for Christ's sake, he knew the statistics of someone waking from a coma after 3 years, but if anyone could, it would be Sherlock fucking Holmes. He dared to hope that he and Sherlock would grow old together, solving crimes into their twilight years, then living out their final days somewhere in the country. Sherlock would be tending bees, with John puttering about in the garden. He always wanted to have a vegetable garden. Although, he'd hoped, oh god how he hoped, John also made plans for the worst. The past three years John knew he was just living in-between. Ever since Baskerville, he'd been on borrowed time.

John watched as Sherlock was removed from the respirator, he vaguely heard the doctor ask everyone to clear the room in order for John to be alone with Sherlock to say a final good-bye.

As he looked down at the man that had been his entire world since the day they'd met, tears welled up in John's eyes. How could he even begin to say good-bye? He couldn't.

Stroking Sherlock's hair, John leaned over to whisper in his ear.

"You told me in Baskerville not to leave you here without me. Well, I can't be here without you either Sherlock." John kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. "See you soon, my good man." John straightened, made a military about face, and left the room without so much as a glance backwards.

As he left the hospital, John pulled out his mobile and dialed the chemist.

"Hello, this is Doctor Watson, London clinic, calling in a script. 1971976.

Yes, John had been preparing for the worst for some time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Chapter Notes:
> 
> We'll have to wait just a bit to find out how this turns out as we'll be back in the past for the next chapter. Oh, and did anyone get that John's physician ID is actually Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday? Just a little hidden gem for you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has had enough of being kept in the dark.  
> Sherlock realises he can't keep shutting John out. No matter how much he wants to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty tame (there is a bit of language though), but we may some bumpy patches a later so a reminder that I've rated the whole fic as explicit just to be safe.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat and Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> We're back in the past now. 
> 
> Off we go...

3 years ago

Sherlock pounced on John the minute he returned to the flat from the warehouse. "Where've you been? I've been texting you all afternoon!"

John had silenced his mobile when he followed Moran into the warehouse and forgot to turn it back on, so he had no idea the state Sherlock was in at not being able to reach him.

John found the best way to deal with Sherlock in these situations was to act as if he were annoyed. "I'm not a child Sherlock. I went for a walk, that's all. I needed to clear my head." John was using the voice he generally used when he was put out with Sherlock. "Besides, I'm surprised you even realised I had gone. You've been ignoring me quite a lot lately." _Good John, start a row – divert his attention._ Too bad it didn't work – John forgot who he was dealing with.

"John," said Sherlock taking a step closer. "Where've you been? You're obviously lying to me."

"Just because you couldn't reach me for a few hours, I'm lying to you? I went for a walk to clear my head …figure out what I've done to put you off and you attack me the moment I walk in the door." If he couldn't start a row to divert Sherlock's attention, John would try guilt. "You disappear for days on end without so much as a 'by your leave', and I'm supposed to accept that. What's the problem with me taking off for just a few hours without you?"

Sherlock loomed over John, narrowing his eyes to scrutinize the man in front of him. John tried to hold Sherlock's glare, knowing if he looked away he wouldn't be able to keep the truth from him any longer. Feeling his resolve start to wither, John pushed past Sherlock.

"What do you care anyway? After all we've been through; I thought I meant more to you. That we meant more to each other." John's hand clenched at his side. "You've been shutting me out for weeks now, Sherlock. We haven't been intimate in more than a month. Have you even noticed I'm no longer in your bed? Well, you might if you ever came to bed."

"John, you know I don't sleep when I'm on a case," Sherlock interjected.

"Yes, I'm well aware Sherlock, and you've been shutting me out there as well." John hadn't meant to steer the conversation back to Moriarty, and realised Sherlock was on to him just a moment too late.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he said, "You've been working on the case haven't you?"

"You needn't concern yourself," John said waving off his partner. "As I said Sherlock, I'm not a child. If you stopped trying to be so overprotective and just fucking TALK to me…" John only swore when he was out of sorts, and the more out of sorts, the worse the swearing became… "I was an officer in the goddamned Army for Christ's sake. Why is it you always seem to forget that? Do you delete it from that bloody brain of yours? You know what... Never mind," John said suddenly very tired of the whole ordeal. "If you want to be reasonable and discuss the case, we can do it – later – after I've had a shower and a proper bite to eat."

"John," Sherlock began.

"No," John interrupted. "If you want to talk to me, whatever it is can wait until I've had a shower and something to eat." John quickly escaped into the bathroom.

As he stood under the shower letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles, John went over the events of the day. He'd learned the name of Moriarty's man, or at least he hoped he had. A simple check would verify what he needed to know. John still had connections to the Military database, so if Moran ever served, John would find him. What concerned him now, however, was that his presence had been noticed at the warehouse. Noticed, but John had not been seen…so at least he could still keep an eye on Moran if he needed to without being recognized. But Moran knew he was being watched now, and that would make things more difficult all the way around. Putting two plus two together John realised the guns Moran had taken possession of must be for the assassins Mycroft told him about. Whatever Moriarty was planning it was bad, and unless Sherlock started sharing information, John feared he would be unable to stop what was being set in motion by the master criminal.

"John?" Sherlock peered into the shower.

Startled by the sudden noise, John slipped and almost fell. "Jesus Sherlock! How many times have I said not to do that? You scared the hell out of me."

"I became worried," said Sherlock still holding the curtain open and looking John up and down. "Are you all right? You've been in here for over half an hour."

"Yes," said John reaching over to turn off the tap. He hadn't even realised the water had gone cold. "Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts." John stepped out of the shower to a waiting towel from Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," whispered Sherlock.

"What?" John said, hardly believing his ears. Sherlock didn't apologise. Ever. Not even to him.

"I know you were a soldier," said Sherlock as he backed up to take a seat on the toilet and watch John dress. "It's what brought you to me. You saved my life on more than one occasion so I do know that you can handle yourself. I apologise for excluding you from the case."

"Sherlock," said John stepping closer. I care more that you seem to be closing off from me emotionally. It took so long to get where we are, don't start shutting me out again. Tell me what's going on in that massive brain of yours." John was standing in front of Sherlock now, and reached out to run his hand through Sherlock's dark curly hair.

Leaning into his touch, Sherlock reached out and pulled John the rest of the way to him, hugging him around the waist. "It's just…" Sherlock gripped John tighter - a little too tight.

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and turned it upwards to meet his eyes. "It's just what Sherlock? Baskerville?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, that's part of it. I don't know what I'd do if something like that happened again. John, I couldn't think properly without you. I should have discovered where you were long before I did. If I had, you wouldn't have suffered so." Sherlock reached up and grazed his fingers over John's heart, causing him to shiver at the light touch. "You died John, and not just once. It was almost more than I could bear."

John pulled Sherlock up and kissed him tenderly. After a moment their lips parted and John smiled and said, "Yes, but I didn't stay dead. How could I? You'd be lost without your blogger."

Sherlock smiled at hearing his own words repeated back to him. He gently ran his thumb over John's lips, taking in every measure of the man in front of him and said, "Quite so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope it's not confusing jumping from the present to the past for anyone. There will be more of that in the coming chapters, just to let everyone know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is still BAMFY, Sherlock is still shutting him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, some of this chapter may seem a bit familiar if you've seen The Reichenbach Fall, however it's got just a little twist.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

For the next week things seemed almost back to normal between John and Sherlock.

Almost.

Sherlock rather brilliantly solved a kidnap case of a well-known diplomat’s children. Only the curious thing was, when Sherlock went to question one of the children, she screamed bloody murder. John was quite unsettled by the incident, but Sherlock acted as if it hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. As they left the hospital, Sherlock told John to take another cab as he climbed into the one waiting. Not a strange request, by any means. Sherlock often wanted time to himself to think over cases. John knew the little girl’s scream distressed Sherlock. She’d never laid eyes on him before today…what would make her so terrified?   John hailed another cab and followed after Sherlock. Once in the cab, he checked his email and found a response to his query about Moran. The message read:

‘Colonel Sebastian Moran, son of Sir Augustus Moran, Minister to Persia. Moran, formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers. Expert marksman and qualified sniper. Dishonourably discharged. Disobeyed a direct order from superior officer in Iraq campaign causing the deaths of more than fifteen Iraqi men, women and children, along with four men under his command. Suspect in the death of Ronald Adair in London, England. Moran was questioned, and then released due to lack of evidence. Goes by many aliases using variant of his real name.’

 _Of course_ , thought John… _M. Aaron Batiness and Bateman S. Ronais_ … _both anagrams of Sebastian Moran_. John was certain Sherlock would have figured it out much sooner than he did. They would be so much further along if they just started communicating with each other. This so called ‘game’ was becoming too dangerous for each to try and solve alone.

As his cab turned the corner John heard a loud shot ring out and he saw Sherlock stood in the street over a man lying on the ground. John barreled out of the taxi yelling Sherlock’s name. The man on the ground was dead, shot three times centre mass. So a professional hit no doubt about it. John recognized the man as one of the assassins Mycroft warned him about.

“Sulimani,” said John aloud. “He’s one of the hit men Mycroft told me about awhile back. Albanian or something I think.”

Sherlock looked squarely at John. “You never told me you’d been to see Mycroft. What other information has my brother been feeding you?”

“Only what you deem either too dangerous or unimportant for me to know,” said John a little too sharply. “And while we’re on the subject, you still haven’t told me what Moriarty said to you in the flat after the trial. It’s only since then that you’ve been keeping me at arm’s length.” John’s voice softened, “Sherlock we need to start working together and coordinate our efforts. This whole thing, whatever Moriarty is playing at, is getting too dangerous.”

Sherlock took a step back, his gaze leaving John’s face and becoming more distant. He changed the subject completely, “We need to get back to Baker Street.”

That night, things between Sherlock and John began to unravel again. John decided he would tell Sherlock about Moran. He was serious when he said they needed to coordinate. Trouble was Lestrade came round to try and get Sherlock to go to The Yard and answer a few, what the Inspector called, ‘nagging’ questions about the kidnap case. It seemed no one could believe that Sherlock figured out the case simply by analysing the shoe imprint left by the kidnapper. Sherlock didn’t go, of course, and it had put him in a foul mood causing a row between him and John after Lestrade left. It was as if Sherlock deliberately wanted John mad at him for some reason. Well, it worked … partly anyway. John stormed off to his room and slammed the door behind him. Barely five minutes later John heard the front door slam as well. John didn’t know why Sherlock left or where he’d gone, but now that he was finally alone with his thoughts his mind drifted back to the information on Moran. All of the focus was on Moriarty and the assassins around Baker Street. No one was even remotely aware of Moran. Except for John, that is. If all the intel was correct on the Colonel, and John had a feeling it was, then Moran was more than just a part-time shag and hired gun for Moriarty. He was probably his right hand man, his Watson. As John came to this revelation, something clicked in his mind. A memory he’d totally forgotten: The incident in the hospital with the HOUND formula … _That Moran_ … the one who left the note.

**_"Hard to sleep with one eye open when you've only got one good eye left._ **

**_See you around Johnny Boy. ~M."_ **

How could John have forgotten that? Maybe it was the after effects of the formula that made him forget. He wasn’t sure. What John was sure of, was that he needed to find more information on Moran. He was the key to the whole lot of it, John was certain. He reached under the bed, pulling the lock box that held his Browning out. After checking the clip and securing the safety once again, John fit the pistol into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. If he could just figure out how Moran figured in the picture, they could put this thing with Moriarty behind them once and for all and get back to regular, normal homicides. He figured the best place to start would be Moran’s flat, he only hoped the man was out when he got there.

John debated taking a taxi the ten or so blocks to Moran’s flat. He hadn’t had any reoccurrence of the heart flutter that plagued him the first time he followed Moran, and as a matter of fact, he hadn’t felt better in months, so he decided to walk. It would give him the opportunity to see the surrounding area and do a little reconnaissance of his own. Men of Moran’s calibre always had a back-up plan and John needed to figure out what it was so Moran wouldn’t be able to use it if the occasion should arise.

Eight blocks came and went in no time. John didn’t think he’d legged it, but adrenaline must’ve got the better of him so he made himself calm down before walking the last two blocks. Watching the surrounding area for anything out of the ordinary, John climbed the steps up to the building and slid in unnoticed as a tenant was leaving.

As fate would have it luck was in John’s favour, Moran was not at home. There was a trip wire on the door though, and John barely saw it in time to keep the trap intact, thereby ensuring Moran would be none the wiser that someone had been there. It took John very little time to search the flat as there wasn’t much to actually search _in_ the flat. No furniture, no television … nothing. John made his way to the one and only bedroom, again no furniture and no clothes in the closet. There was a military issue sleeping bag on the floor and a desert camo rucksack set beside it. John hurried over to the rucksack but was careful as he searched through it. Soldiers are taught during escape and evasion training to put traps on everything they own, so even if you were taken prisoner you still had the means in place to take out one of your captors and possibly cause a diversion for your escape. John pulled out an aerial map of central London. There was a large red ‘X’ over three areas; Baker Street, St. Bartholomew’s hospital and Scotland Yard. _Targets, obviously_ – thought John. What sort of targets though? Those were the three places Sherlock visited the most, his holy trinity as it were. Were Moriarty and Moran planning another bombing escapade? No. Moriarty would be planning something more personal for Sherlock. So what then? He didn’t have time to think about it in the middle of Moran’s flat. He needed to finish his search and get out before the man returned. John replaced the map and set everything back exactly as it had been before he disturbed it and made his way to the loo. Immediately upon opening the door, John’s eyes were drawn to a large coat set on the counter. A panic gripped John as he picked it up, he recognised it straight away. It was Sherlock’s Belstaff. Why did Moran have Sherlock’s coat? Better yet … what had he done to Sherlock to get it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's fate will have to wait I'm afraid. We've left John about to do something very dire in the future, remember? We need to get back there and see what happens.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in a bad way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning!  
> I feel I’m obliged to warn for suicide triggers here and mention that this chapter contains a suicide attempt and may be upsetting in nature to anyone with said trigger.  
> I have taken out the specific drug ingested for this reason as well. 
> 
> Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review. This chapter is pretty grim, and one of the reasons for the Explicit rating for this fic. If you have any aversions or triggers for suicide, please skip this chapter. 
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> Off we go...

Present day

John entered 221B, depositing the contents of his pockets into the dish sitting by the door as he’d done since moving into the flat. This time, in addition to his keys and loose change there was the bottle of pills he picked up from the chemist on his way home.  He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket, and without checking the display, turned it off. There was no one left he wanted to talk to. He and his sister Harry stopped talking to each other a little over three years ago when she showed up drunk at the hospital trying to visit John after his ordeal at Baskerville. Sherlock tried to calm her down but John heard her yelling at Sherlock, saying he was to blame for what had happened to John. Hospital Security escorted her from the building and she never came back, sober or otherwise. John called her one day not too long after his return home and told her not to call or try and come by until she was clean. The ‘tough love’ approach, he’d said, was the only way she was going to get sober and stay that way. John didn’t even know if she were still in London anymore. He supposed he should leave her a note though. That’s what people do, right? Leave a note?

John sighed and took off his jacket, turning as he did so to hang it on the hook on the back of the door, next to the Belstaff that was a constant reminder of Sherlock’s absence from the flat – as if John needed one. John reached out and gripped the coat pulling it close, burying his face in the fabric as he was wont to do. It had long ago lost Sherlock’s scent and now only smelled generically like the flat, but that didn’t matter to John, Sherlock loved that coat and it held memories of the both of them together. Sherlock had wrapped it around John on several occasions, both good and bad and it was the closest thing to Sherlock John still had. The public all associated the deerstalker hat with Sherlock-John hated that fucking hat- but _this_ … his Belstaff … this was what the detective cherished most.   

Releasing the coat, John moved toward the kitchen. He bypassed his normal routine of putting the kettle on in favour of pulling the bottle of scotch down from the cupboard. Forgoing a glass, John opened the bottle and took a swig. He moved to the sitting room and picked up a pad of paper and pen from the desk drawer. Removing his shoes, he sat down in his chair and took another drink. John didn’t really have any possessions to speak of, but he did want to leave a Will of some sort. His Browning had disappeared the week after the incident on the rooftop at Bart’s. Whether it was Lestrade or Mycroft that took it, John wasn’t certain, but he figured it would have gone to Lestrade anyway. There were a few first edition books that Sherlock had collected over the years that should probably go to Mycroft, but John figured that would all be sorted properly anyway without his input on the matter. The one thing he did want to make sure of was that Mrs. Hudson was taken care of. The woman had been a god send to both he and Sherlock, and John knew she would have a hard time of it after he was gone. She was currently out of town now with Mrs. Turner, who insisted Mrs. Hudson go with her to visit her son in the Cotswolds for a couple of weeks. She hadn’t wanted to go and leave John, but he insisted. The last thing he wanted was for her to find him. He figured two weeks was plenty of time. Mycroft or Lestrade would definitely find him within that amount of time. So then, all of the money in the bank account along with the money from the sale of all the items in the flat would go to Mrs. Hudson.

“Huh,” said John aloud to the empty flat. “My entire life wrapped up in less than a paragraph. Brilliant.” He took a gulp of scotch.

At the end of ‘The Last Will and Testament of John Hamish Watson’, John wrote, “Please make sure when you lay Sherlock to rest, you bury him in his Belstaff. As it is my wish to be cremated, I would like to be spread over Sherlock’s grave if that is acceptable to Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes. This is my last request.”

John took another long pull of scotch, then stood and walked over to the dish by the door and picked up the bottle of pills. Opening the bottle, he shook four of them out into his hand and popped them into his mouth, swallowing without anything to wash them down. John put the bottle in his pocket and went back to his chair. He pulled out another piece of paper. What should he say to Harry?

“My Dearest Harriet, I do hope you have been able to straighten your life out. Please don’t let my decision to join Sherlock cause you any strife. This was the way it was always meant to be … only I should have gone first. Three years ago, you blamed Sherlock for what happened to me at Baskerville, but what you failed to see my dear baby sister is that it was I who followed Sherlock willingly. He never, ever forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do. I loved him and god help him, he loved me too. We were good together Harry. The best ever. We were both halves of nothing until we met, don’t you see? We made each other whole. Now that he’s gone, I can’t exist. I can’t breathe properly without him. So don’t weep for me, Harry. I needed to do this. Remember how Mum always used to say 'Hope for the best, expect the worst and live in-between'? Well there is no best for me, not anymore, it disappeared with Sherlock. Nothing could be worse than that. Live in-between? That’s what I’ve been doing for the last three fucking years and I’m just so tired.”

John’s eyes closed as the cocktail of pills and scotch began to take effect. He opened his eyes again and shook his head to clear it for just awhile longer.

“I love you Harry. Please always remember that. No matter how many times we fought, it was always out of love. I just wanted you to have a better life for yourself. I hope you’ve found that and more. Your loving brother, John.”

John dug the pills out of his pocket, shook two more into his hand and this time washed them down with a shot of scotch. He needed to finish writing his next letter quickly while his head was still clear enough to do so.

“My dear man, if you’re reading this then a miracle has happened and you’ve awakened from your long slumber. I am sorry that I am not there to greet you, but I’ve been waiting for so long for you to return. However, I did not want you to leave without me and when your life support was removed, I feared you might go and leave me alone. We both know I’m not so good alone. You gave my life to me and set me free – made me whole again after Afghanistan. Sherlock, the finest time I ever knew in my life was all the time I spent with you. I would give anything just to have you back again, so I can no longer remain here – trapped and alone with you gone. Pitied by Lestrade… Mrs. Hudson and even your sodding brother, I’d rather have a mere chance at seeing you in the afterlife, if there is such a thing. God! There has to be. We didn’t have near enough time here in the real world after all, did we? The universe can’t be that cruel, can it? One thing Sherlock - I need you to do one thing for me if a miracle has happened and you’re not dead. If you should wake and I’ve already gone ahead, don’t join me. The world needs you and your brilliant mind. I think I fell in love with you from the start because of that intellect. No one had ever been able to see the real me before you. From that moment on, I knew I would always be at your side. You can help so many people; save so many lives … so please … please, for me don’t follow. Forever and always yours, John”

John stood and had to steady himself on the arm of the chair. He staggered to the bookcase and pulled down a tattered first edition collection of poetry he and Sherlock often read to each other. Flipping through the pages he stopped at the well-loved Whitman ‘Leaves of Grass’ poem. It was the poem Sherlock read to him most often. John lovingly stroked the page, hearing Sherlock’s voice, “Oh Captain, my Captain.” John smiled at the memory. He returned to flipping through the pages, next stopping on Byron’s ‘Love & Death’. As he’d done for Sherlock so many times before, John read the passage aloud.

“I watched thee when the foe was at our side,  
    Ready to strike at him—or thee and me,  
Were safety hopeless—rather than divide  
    Aught with one loved save love and liberty.”

John stopped reading as tears began to fill his eyes. He folded the letter he’d written and put it in the book. He set the book on the coffee table and pulled the pills from his pocket to take two more. How many was that now? He couldn’t remember. He took another drink of scotch and realised the bottle was almost empty. Suddenly a strange thought came to John. He needed to take a shower. He wanted to be clean when they found him. John didn’t know why this was suddenly so important, but he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the water. John fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, finally opting for just ripping it open when he felt the task was taking too long. Next, he unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the floor. As he stepped out of them, John’s foot caught and he tripped. He fell forward into the shower and hit his head on the spigot, cutting a large gash in his forehead and knocking himself unconscious.

Xxx

Mycroft tried ringing John again. Over the last hour he’d tried 24 times. Lestrade tried just as many. Something was wrong. Even if John were mad at both of them, he still would have picked up just to tell them to sod off.  When John didn’t answer the door, Lestrade kicked it in.

“John!” yelled Lestrade. “You here mate?” He looked down and saw the empty bottle of scotch on the floor. “John!” he yelled again.

Mycroft saw the handwritten notes in John’s chair. Upon seeing the words ‘The Last Will and Testament of John Hamish Watson,’ he picked the pages up and shook them at Lestrade. “Greg, the bloody fool’s gone and done something stupid.”

Lestrade’s eyes went wide when he saw what Mycroft was referring to. “Jesus H Christ. JOHN!” Lestrade headed back to the bedroom where he heard water running. Mycroft was already on the phone dialling 999.

Pushing the door open to the bathroom, Lestrade saw John’s unconscious form in the tub. Rushing forward to help him, he kicked the bottle of pills that had fallen out of John’s pocket when he undressed. “Fuck. John. What the hell have you done? You stupid fucking idiot.” Lestrade reached forward and pulled John from the tub, setting him down on the bathroom floor. He felt for a pulse, there wasn’t one. “Jesus, no mate,” said Lestrade just as Mycroft appeared in the doorway.

“Mycroft, he took something. I kicked the bottle somewhere. You need to find it.” Lestrade said as he began CPR.  

Mycroft saw the bottle by the toilet and picked it up. “The paramedics are on the way and I’ve made arrangements for him at A&E,” he said calmly.

“That’s if he makes it,” Lestrade huffed as he made compressions. “Mycroft, I’m not sure if John’s heart can take this much abuse again.”

Mycroft never said a word as he slid the bottle of pills into his pocket and knelt down to help Lestrade perform CPR.

As the two men worked in tandem to try and save John, sirens could be heard in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all a bit Romeo and Juliet right now, I know. But as I like to say... It's always darkest before the Jawn.  
> Speaking of our dear John, we'll have to wait a chapter or two to find out how he comes out of his predicament.
> 
> A treat for Souviner Programme fans.... I couldn't help but use the term 'Jacket pocket' :) did you catch it?
> 
>  
> 
> Next time ... Just exactly what is Sherlock's coat doing in Sebastian Moran's flat and how the hell is John going to figure out what sort of game Moriarty is playing at?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've left John in Present Day for just a bit, but don't worry we'll get back there soon enough. In the past, John has been poking around in Sebastian Moran's flat, where he has come across a very familiar looking coat.
> 
> Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review. 
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Three Years Ago

Upon closer inspection, John realised the Belstaff in his hand didn't belong to Sherlock. It wasn't tailored like Sherlock's, more specifically; it didn't have the red stitching around the button hole on the lapel. John noted a bulge in one of the pockets, and there tucked inside was a curly wig close to the shade of Sherlock's hair.

So that's why the little girl screamed. Moran must have dressed up like Sherlock, kidnapped the children and taken them to the warehouse. The little girl, Claudette, was terrified though. Not that being kidnapped is an everyday ordeal for a child, but these are the children of a diplomat.

Having been in the Army, John knew the children of diplomats were taught from an early age about strangers and the dangers of being abducted. The little boy had even been clever enough to leave a trail for them to follow. So what did Moran do that terrified the poor girl?

 _The formula_ , thought John. Moran used the HOUND formula on them. He'd either put it in the candy or used another way to administer it. Once that was done, all Moran had to do was wait until it began to take effect. There was no telling what sort of nightmare the children saw when they looked at Moran dressed as Sherlock.

John returned the wig to the coat pocket and set the Belstaff back on the counter where he found it. He made his way out of the flat and back out on to the street. Remembering his mobile this time, John reached in his pocket and turned it back on to see if he'd missed any messages from Sherlock. Nothing.

With his head pounding from all the exertion and new information, John headed back to Baker Street. He needed to process everything and he couldn't do it on his own. Hopefully, Sherlock had returned and the two of them could finally have that talk. As John walked, he mentally went over what he knew so far. It all started with the cases. Sherlock thought the Reichenbach case, the kidnapped Banker and the capture of Ricoletti, were all directly related to Moriarty's so called 'trifecta of crime' – Pentonville, The Bank of England and of course, the Crown Jewels spectacle where Moriarty was apprehended. John saw how The Banker case and the Ricoletti case corresponded with Moriarty's Bank of England and Pentonville crimes, but how were the Crown Jewels anything to do with the Reichenbach painting? _Come on John think_ , he told himself.

Approaching Baker Street, John passed a jewelry store and suddenly it came to him. _Oh of course,_ he thought, shaking his head. Now that he'd figured it out, he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. John hastened his pace, he had a hunch but he hoped he wasn't right. All of Moriarty's plans were leading up to one big frame job against Sherlock. Even the press was beginning to turn as John said they would. The evidence was mounting and soon Sherlock wouldn't be able to dig himself out.

John entered the flat just as his mobile rang – it was Lestrade. He told John they were on their way over to arrest Sherlock as a suspect in the kidnap case. John noticed Sherlock sitting in his chair, a blank look on his face, deep in thought.

Sighing deeply John said, "At least I've still got some friends on the force. Sherlock, that was Lestrade. He said they're all coming over here right now." John clenched his hand several times – clearly agitated. "Queuing up to slap on the handcuffs. Every single officer you ever made fell like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Sherlock didn't move.

"Ooh whoo," said Mrs. Hudson, knocking on the door as she entered their flat. "Oh sorry, am I interrupting? Some chap delivered a parcel. Marked perishable, I had to sign for it."

This got Sherlock's attention and he stood, coming over to stand beside John, who took the package from Mrs. Hudson.

It was a gingerbread man. "Burnt to a crisp," said Sherlock.

Sirens could be heard outside the flat, then a knock at the front door. Mrs. Hudson left to answer it. When they were alone, John turned to Sherlock and hurriedly said, "You're being set up. It's Moran, that bloke from the Baskerville case, he's helping Moriarty. I found a replica of your jacket along with a wig in his flat tonight. He also had a map that had Baker Street, St. Barts and Scotland Yard marked with a big red X."

Sherlock's eyes went wide, "You broke in to Sebastian Moran's flat? John, I thought I said…," he began but was cut off by John.

"Not now," whispered John hearing footsteps climbing the stairs to their flat. "Let's get this mess with Lestrade sorted first, and then you and I are going to have a serious talk mister." John stretched up and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips, then moved to intercept Lestrade at the door.

So many officers for just one man…it was all a bit overkill. John couldn't stand the way they were treating Sherlock.

"Have you got a warrant? Have you? He's not resisting," John said as an officer began to cuff his partner. "Are the cuffs really necessary?"

"It's all right John," said Sherlock, perfectly calm.

"No, it's not all right," fumed John. "Lestrade, he's not resisting. Why are you doing this? This is ridiculous."

Lestrade ignored John. "Get him downstairs now," he said.

The officer cuffing Sherlock spun the detective around violently, nearly knocking him off balance.

John turned to Lestrade, and almost pleading said, "You know you don't have to do this."

It was no use, Lestrade was all business. "John, don't try to interfere or I shall arrest you too."

John watched Lestrade leave and saw Sally Donovan gloating in the corner.

"You done?" he said glaring at her.

"Well…I said it, first time we met," came Donovan's smug reply.

John wanted to have nothing to do with her- he just wanted her out of the flat. "Don't bother," he said.

She wasn't detoured and wanted to rub it in. "Solving crimes won't be enough, one day he'll cross the line. Now ask yourself, what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"

John had enough. He was going to tell Donovan what he'd found and show her how wrong she was about Sherlock. He opened his mouth to tell her, but was cut off.

"Donovan."

No wonder they'd all been so keen to arrest Sherlock. The Chief Superintendent himself had come along to make sure Sherlock was taken into custody.

John was already at the tipping point due to Donovan's glib remarks, so when the Chief Superintendent called Sherlock a 'weirdo', that was the last straw. John punched the man right in the nose, inflicting the most damage he could without killing him. The sheer force of the blow not only broke the Superintendent's nose, but shattered one of the lenses of his spectacles. If John had changed the direction of the blow just the slightest bit, he would have caused permanent damage. As it was the Superintendent would be hard pressed to breathe properly for the next three to six months.

"Weirdo?" said John, now seething. "You ungrateful twat! That man has done more for your department than all of your officers put together."

Donovan quickly moved forward with another officer to pull John off of the Chief.

"And that includes your so called star here, Officer Donovan. She couldn't find a cock if it were stuck up her arse!"

…

John was shoved roughly against the police car next to Sherlock.

"Joining me?" quipped Sherlock.

"Yeah," grinned John as the officer cuffed him and Sherlock together. "Apparently, it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent."

"Bit awkward this," replied Sherlock.

"There's no one to bail us," answered John, thinking Sherlock was referring to both of them being arrested.

"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape," muttered Sherlock.

Did John hear that right? "Our what?" he asked just as Sherlock lunged forward causing a diversion.

What the hell was Sherlock doing? However erratic Sherlock seemed he always had a plan. John trusted him implicitly, and if Sherlock concluded this was what they needed to do, John would follow his lead.

Still cuffed together, they ran off into the night.

End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is much more clever than Sherlock gives him credit for. Things don't go as planned for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle(and those blokes Moffat & Gatiss from Sherlock). I've just had a fiddle with them.

As police cars sped by, John and Sherlock hid in a nearby alley.

Sherlock turned to John. “Everybody wants to believe it, that’s what makes it so clever. A lie that’s preferable to the truth. No one feels inadequate. Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man.”

“Sherlock,” John said, “We’ll figure this out. Now that we know Moran is helping Moriarty, we can stop them both once and for all, and clear your name.”

“John, you don’t understand. You’re not seeing the bigger picture,” replied Sherlock.

“What do you mean?” said John confused.

“I mean, my dear man that it’s about me yes…but not really.” Sherlock moved around to stand in front of John, stepping closer to press himself up against him as if he were trying to make he and John become one.

“Sher...Sherlock?” questioned John clearing his throat. “What are you doing? We’re kind of on the lamb here. We really don’t have time for this.”

Sherlock reached up with his free hand and ran his thumb across John’s lips. “John,” he whispered, “No matter what happens – what anyone says – this… you and I are real. Do you understand? You believe that don’t you? You must.”

“With all my heart,” answered John softly as he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock passionately. John was worried now. Sherlock wasn’t normally one for declarations of love unless the situation was dire.

John pulled back from the kiss and said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“That day, after the trial – in the flat… Moriarty… he said everyone has their pressure point – someone they want to protect from harm. He knows that’s you for me. He figured it out after the pool incident and that’s why he made that first attempt on you at Baskerville using Barrymore. He wants to get to me through you my dear fellow. It has nothing to do really with ruining my name and my profession. That’s all a ruse, don’t you see? He’s like a magician - using sleight of hand and misdirection to distract us from his real goal. If he takes you, harms you… KILLS you… he’s effectively done the same to me.” Sherlock had tears in his eyes.

“Couldn’t we get Mycroft to help? He seems like he wants to help. After all, he did let me know about the assassins around the flat.”

“Big family reconciliation? No, I don’t think now is really the time,” huffed Sherlock.

John saw a head peak around the corner of the alley. “Sherlock,” he whispered, “We’re being followed. I knew we couldn’t outrun the police.”

Sherlock stepped back around to stand beside John again, taking note of the man peering at them from the end of the alley. “That’s not the police, that’s one our new neighbours from Baker Street.”

In order to draw the assassin out, Sherlock ran - with John still cuffed to him – out into the street directly in front of an oncoming night bus. The pursuer pushed Sherlock and John out of the way of the double decker. They were only able to get a small amount of information before the assassin was shot, but it was enough. The information they gleaned would clear Sherlock’s name, they just had to find it.

First though, they needed to speak to a certain journalist regarding a story she’d written calling Sherlock a fraud. The article she wrote was a perfect weaving of truth and lies – something Sherlock said couldn’t have come from Kitty, she wasn’t that good of a journalist. So the question was who was feeding her the information.

Sitting in Kitty’s flat, in the dark waiting for her return, Sherlock broke the silence permeating the room. “John, I was only trying to protect you – you understand that, yes?”

John let out a sigh, “Yes, I understand. Let’s not get into this right now, all right? I’ve already had one row tonight that will probably get me locked up for a very long time - I don’t want to add a domestic to the list.”

Taking John’s hand in his own Sherlock said, “John once we find the code, we’ll get this all sorted. We can…” Just then the door opened and Kitty turned on the light.

Within minutes of questioning the journalist on where she got her information, said source came strolling through the door. It was none other than Moriarty. The bastard had convinced Kitty he was some ridiculous actor named Richard Brook that Sherlock had hired to play the part of Moriarty. John didn’t buy it for one second. He knew Moriarty was real, and no one would convince him otherwise. The man tried to blow John up after all, with a real bomb…not a prop. That’s not something you can act your way through. Moriarty was giving it his best performance now though, claiming to be this ‘Storyteller’ from a children’s television show.

John could feel Sherlock’s anger growing and then finally he exploded, “STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!”

Moriarty was off like a shot out the window and disappeared.

John called after Sherlock as they were leaving Kitty’s flat, “Can he do that? Completely change his identity and make you the criminal?”

“He’s got my whole life story. That’s what you do when you sell a big lie- wrap it up in a truth to make it more palatable.”

“Your word against his,” agreed John. This was just as he’d feared. Moriarty was setting Sherlock up, he was going ruin his reputation. Once that article was published, there’d be no way to undo the damage.

“He’s been sewing doubt into people’s minds for the last twenty-four hours. Now there’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that’s to…”

“Sherlock,” John questioned.

“There’s something I need to do,” said Sherlock. Sherlock was facing away from John so he couldn’t see his expression.

“Can I help?” said John moving forward to put his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

The detective moved forward before John could touch him. “No, on my own,” said Sherlock and he took off without another word.

John was getting really tired of Sherlock keeping things to himself. This ‘game’ of Moriarty’s was getting away from him, John could see it. He didn’t care what Sherlock said about keeping him out of it, John knew exactly where he needed to go. There was only one person who could have possibly told Moriarty all of those secrets about Sherlock.

***

John’s visit to Mycroft had done him absolutely no good at all. Mycroft and his damnable stiff upper lip just sat across from John spouting how sorry he was and that he hadn’t known Moriarty was going to use it against Sherlock. Oh yes, he’d basically sold out his own brother.

“So you abducted Moriarty,” said John.

“We picked him up initially for his involvement at Baskerville, to find out what he knew about the HOUND formula and what his plans were for it. We interrogated him for weeks, but he just sat there staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up…I could get him to talk – just a little.”

“But in return you had to offer him Sherlock’s life story. Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

“John, I’m sorry,” apologised Mycroft again.

“Oh, please.” John said as he headed for the door. He heard Mycroft mutter something but was past caring what else the man had to say.

***

John received a text from Sherlock saying he was at the hospital and to join him there.

As he walked through the door, John got the distinct feeling that something was ‘off’ about Sherlock. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something going on.

John’s mobile rang.  “Yeah speaking,” he said answering it. Someone on the other end told him that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. The voice said she was gravely injured, and that John needed to come straight away.

“What is it?” said Sherlock almost mechanically.

“Mrs. Hudson, she’s been shot. Let’s go.” John moved to leave.

“You go, I’m busy.”

Now John knew something was definitely going on. Sherlock was up to something. “Busy? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

Again, with absolutely no emotion, Sherlock said “She’s my landlady.”

John knew this to be a lie. Mrs. Hudson was more than that…for both of them, but realised this was getting nowhere. He stormed out of the room and headed out of the hospital. Once outside he stopped and breathed in the cold air, clearing his head. He pulled out his mobile and rang Mrs. Hudson’s number.

“Hello?” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice on the other end.

“Mrs. Hudson? Are you all right?” John said feeling a bit more relieved that she answered.

“Yes dear, is something wrong?

“No, but I’d like you to head to your sister's please. We have a situation, and I’m not sure you’re safe at Baker Street.”

Mrs. Hudson was quite for a moment and then, “I’ll leave now John. You two be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if one of you boys were hurt.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson, we will. I’ll call you when it’s safe to return.” John rang off and turned back to reenter the hospital. Suddenly, John remembered the map he’d seen in Moran’s flat - Baker Street, Scotland Yard and Barts - Big red X marks over the three of them. John rang Lestrade. It was a risk, he and Sherlock were still on the run, but he had to warn Greg. It was the decent thing to do, and if John was right it would help to prove Sherlock had been set up.

It took some convincing, but John talked the Detective Inspector into checking out the perimeter around the Yard and those persons inside the building that weren’t his usual officers.

Now, John was going to find Sherlock and figure out just what the hell was going on.

John barreled through the lab door, “Sherlock, I don’t care if you think you’re trying to protect…” John didn’t finish the sentence. The room was empty. Where had Sherlock gone?

Just then, Molly walked in.

“Molly, where’s Sherlock?”

“I…I…” she stuttered.

“Molly, do you know something?” John accused.

“He…he wanted my help-said not to tell you. That it was important, to keep you safe.”

“Where is he? Tell me Molly, please. I have to help him,” pleaded John.

“It’s all right, John. He has a plan.”

“And when have Sherlock’s plans ever gone, well … to plan?” John cocked his head sideways for emphasis.

This must have convinced her. “He’s on the roof.”

“Jesus,” whispered John.

“John,” Molly called as John turned to leave. “He’s not alone…Jim is there. Be careful.”

John entered the lift. What the hell was he going to do? He didn’t have his gun so how would he be able to protect Sherlock? The lift let out one floor below the roof meaning John would have to use the stairs to go the rest of the way up.

A shot rang out just as John reached the door to the roof.

Opening the door, John saw Sherlock perched on the ledge.

“Sherlock!” John shouted. “NO!” he called as he rushed forward.

Sherlock turned to see John approach.

John saw Moriarty lying on the ground- it looked as though the man had taken his own life.

“What are you doing? Get down, please.”

“John, don’t come any closer. You don’t understand I have to do this.” Sherlock had tears in his eyes.

John took a step forward.

“John, stay where you are,” commanded Sherlock.

John took another step forward and calmly said, “Sherlock, just come down from there, whatever it is we can handle it together.”

Sherlock turned and leaned out as if he was going to fall.

John bridged the distance in an instant grabbing Sherlock’s coat and pulling him backwards onto the rooftop, falling on top of him as he did so.

“What the bloody hell are you thinking?” John said to the squirming man beneath him.

“Get off of me!” shouted Sherlock. “You don’t know what you’ve done. Please, dear God… John you have to let me jump.” Sherlock was frantically trying to get John to release him.

“Sherlock, calm down. I sent Mrs. Hudson away to her sisters. I warned Greg. Everything is fine. Moriarty seems to have taken care of himself, so it’s finished.” John relaxed his grip on Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… they’re out of danger?” Sherlock questioned as the two men stood.

“Yes, I figured they might be targets after seeing the map in Moran’s flat,” said John proudly.

Sherlock visibly calmed. “John, you know…sometimes I don’t give you enough credit.”

John grinned and pulled Sherlock into an embrace.

Sherlock gripped John tightly and whispered in his ear, “I love you John Hamish Watson, don’t ever forget that.”

Just as John was about to reply, he heard the report of a gun as he was spun around violently by Sherlock.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. For the briefest moment, there was the look of peace… of love, on Sherlock’s face. In the next moment, John was splattered with Sherlock’s blood and he watched the man that was his world, crumple to the ground.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in a bad way.  
> John goes McGyver on us.  
> Mycroft...well...he's Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're still back in the past (three years ago to be specific) on the rooftop at Barts. 
> 
> Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (and the modern adaptation of Sherlock from those blokes Moffat & Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Three Years Ago...

When the bullet hit Sherlock, John thought he’d been killed instantly. There was so much blood and it was hard for John to tell just exactly where the bullet had struck. Sherlock lay at an odd angle, face down on the roof, a few feet away. The military man in John took over and he laid flat on his stomach and proceeded to ‘low crawl’ over to Sherlock as fast as he could. He was protected, he hoped, by the roof’s perimeter wall. However, if the shooter had taken a higher position, it would only be a matter of time before John was hit, no matter how flat he made himself. Reaching Sherlock with no other shots fired, John felt certain the sniper had fled the scene. Now kneeling beside his partner, John could see where the bullet had entered. It wasn’t Sherlock’s head – _Thank God_ – but it might just as well have been.

With all the blood John didn’t even have to turn Sherlock over to know that the bullet had nicked either a jugular vein or the carotid artery. He immediately reached inside his pocket and pulled out the little moleskin notebook he always carried now. (After all, he never knew when he’d have to write something important down. He didn’t have a ‘Mind Palace’ to store things like Sherlock did.) Opening the book he pulled the tiny gem clip that fastened the finished cases apart from the current ones, and discarded the book without a second thought. Turning Sherlock over gently, John could see his previous assessment was spot on. Sherlock’s beautiful alabaster neck had a horrible, gaping wound that was bleeding profusely. John took the clip and pushed it into Sherlock’s neck, feeling his way to where the jugular was nicked and fastened the paper clip to clamp off the bleeding.

How the bullet had missed the carotid artery, John would never know but thank God it had or Sherlock would have already bled out. As it was, there still wasn’t any time to spare. The internal jugular vein could temporarily function for the external one, but Sherlock needed surgery immediately. Even then, it wasn’t guaranteed he’d survive, and there were other complications to consider like brain damage and/or paralysis. Not to mention the minor issues such as vocal damage and scarring. Good thing they didn’t have far to go.

xxx

Covered in blood, John waited outside surgery for word on Sherlock. How many times had he and Sherlock done this over their time together? It was usually John needing medical attention, as he was the one throwing himself into the fray to protect Sherlock, but the detective had suffered his share of near misses as well.

John must’ve nodded off, no doubt the adrenaline had worn off, for he was awakened by Mycroft lightly shaking his shoulder.

“John, I’ve been told he’s out of surgery,” said Mycroft stepping back as John rose from the waiting room chair, rubbing his eyes.

“And?” prompted John. He looked at his watch and grimaced noting six hours had passed since Sherlock was brought in. “Too long,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?” questioned Mycroft.

John started to answer but kept quiet as Sherlock’s doctor approached.

“Hello Doctor Watson,” greeted the burly Scotsman. “I’m sorry I’m not seeing you under better circumstances.”

John gave one of his half smiles, “We never see each other under better circumstances, do we Doctor McMurray? So, what’s the verdict this time?

“Not good I’m afraid,” McMurray said quite seriously.

Mycroft’s face remained expressionless. The half-smile John had given McMurray moments ago fell from his countenance as he sat back down in the waiting room chair, putting his head in his hands. John could still see traces of Sherlock’s blood on his hands, under his fingernails.

“Continue,” was all John could say.

“If not for your quick thinking, I don’t think Sherlock would have survived at all.”

“But?” said John lifting his head to look McMurray in the eye.

“In order to repair the damage we had to dislocate the mandible to get to the exterior jugular vein – all of this took valuable time. We made the repair and were able to transfer function from the interior back to the exterior vein again, however that’s not what concerns me. Due to the severe nature of the trauma and the major loss of blood sustained, we’re just not certain if any brain damage has been sustained, and we won’t be able to find out until Sherlock wakes up.”

John could tell the other shoe was about to drop. “And when will that be,” he questioned – not really wanting to hear the answer he already knew.

McMurray sighed deeply. “We don’t know. Sherlock has slipped into a comatose state. It could be as little as a few hours or he could never regain consciousness. At this time, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Mycroft put a hand on John’s arm. “He’ll pull through John, you’ll see. My brother is nothing if not resilient.”

“I know,” said John but he had a sinking feeling this might be the time he and Sherlock didn’t leave the hospital together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, I know. I will update soon and we'll start to get it all wrapped up. In the meantime, have you seen my other stories? Return to Baskerville and my latest, Collateral Damage?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last. The final chapter. Well almost the last. :) Please forgive any typos as I've not had this chapter beta'd.
> 
> Many thanks to those of you that take time to read, special hugs and Sherlock kisses for those that review.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (and the modern adaptation of Sherlock from those blokes Moffat & Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.

Now

John was burning up as he lay dying in the Afghan sun. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he lost consciousness due to blood loss from the gaping wound in his shoulder. _So this is it then_ – he thought. There was still so much he wanted to do with his life, so much he wanted to accomplish. He wasn’t done yet. Being a doctor, John  has always wondered what  a person would think in the moments before their death. “Please God...let me live,” he said aloud. “Let me live. I’m not finished yet.”

There was a steady beeping in his head that seemed to be getting louder with each passing moment. John could also hear a voice, far away at first, then closer as if it hovered above him there in the desert. _How odd._

“How longingly I look upon you.” – There. There was the voice, closer still. “You must be he I was seeking.”

A few minutes later consciousness came back to John Watson and he realised where he was. John didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want it to be true. “So, not dead then?” he croaked out, as a tear fell from the corner of his eye. “Why couldn’t you just let me go, just let me die? Dear God, please just let me die so I can be with Sherlock. I can’t be here without him.”

There was a movement at his side, then suddenly John felt a warm pair of lips pressed against his own and his eyes flew open wide.

“You’re an idiot,” rasped the man hovering above him.

It couldn’t be. John had to still be dreaming.

“Sherlock?” said John not believing his eyes. “Sherlock?” he said again.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “And yes, it is really me you stupid man. What the hell were you thinking doing something so idiotic? If my brother and Lestrade hadn’t been searching for you to tell you I’d awakened…” Sherlock reached up and stroked John’s hair, something he was only prone to do when John was sick or injured. “That was just over three weeks ago, John.”

John opened his mouth to ask a question but was pre-empted.

“Ah, Doctor Watson welcome back,” said Doctor McMurray smiling broadly as he entered the room with a nurse, Mycroft and Lestrade following close behind.

Sherlock took a step back to give the doctor and his nurse room to check on John. As he did so John shot up in the bed in a panic. “NO! Sherlock! Don’t leave! Don’t go!”

Sherlock stepped forward again, taking John’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere my good man. We just need to have Doctor McMurray take a look at you. Here, I’ll just move to the foot of the bed, shall I? I’ll keep hold of you the entire time, all right?” Sherlock moved down and placed his hand on John’s foot, massaging it a little to let John know he wasn’t going to leave. “There now, better?” said Sherlock looking at John with just a hint of concern in his eyes.

John felt his panic ease. He knew he was being irrational, but couldn’t control it. “I’m sorry. I…I just…” John’s voice trailed off.

“Completely understandable,” said Doctor McMurray. “You’ve had quite a surprise today after being in a coma for nearly a month.”

“Coma?” questioned John still a little confused.

“Yes, we induced coma when you were admitted to help control the damage to your heart and intestines from the pills you ingested.”

John nodded. “Yes of course,” he said. “I wasn’t really thinking about that when I took them. I only had the one goal in mind you see.” John looked down to the foot of the bed, his eyes and Sherlock’s fixing on each other properly for the first time in more than three years.

As the doctor talked, John paid little attention. His eyes were feasting on the man at his feet. Sherlock squeezed John’s foot and gave a slight smile as he did so, a wordless conversation going on between the two men.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes, well maybe we should allow these two a little privacy? Turning to go he addressed John directly. “John, once you’re up to it you and I will need to have a conversation about Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock turned to look at his brother and then back to John, who nodded to Mycroft and said, “You know where to find me.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said looking from John to Sherlock. “Yes, I do. Come along Greg, let’s leave these two to catch up. I’m sure they have a lot to discuss.”

Lestrade touched John on the shoulder, “Happy we found you in time John. Now hurry up and get the hell out of here. I’ve got several cases I need help with.” He turned and nodded to Sherlock and then followed Mycroft out of the room.

Both Doctor McMurray and his nurse followed soon after with a promise to clear John to leave as soon as possible once all of the necessary tests were completed.

Sherlock moved slowly back around the bed to stand beside John once again, careful to not break contact. “Hello,” he rasped.

John winced. “Oh, Sherlock,” he said shaking his head.

“What is it?” said Sherlock. Are you in pain? Should I call for McMurray again?”

“No Sherlock…I’m fine,” said John flatly. “Your voice. You’re beautiful baritone voice. I’m so sorry. It couldn’t be helped. I tried to repair it as much as I could after you were…”

“John. John,” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s just temporary. McMurray flew in a specialist at Mycroft’s order as soon as I woke up. They found only a small amount of scar tissue so it was a minor procedure to remove it. Another week or so and I’ll be back to normal.”

John let out a deep sigh. “Well thank God for that.”

“You can thank God if you like. I’ll thank Doctor Peachtree instead.”

John chuckled and affected his best Sherlock imitation, “Quite so.”

A long moment passed without any words spoken when John broke the silence. “I’ve missed you so much Sherlock.”

“And I you John. When they told me what you’d done, I couldn’t believe it. What were you thinking?”

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes glistening with barely contained tears. “I was thinking I didn’t want to be in a world that didn’t have you in it.”

“Yet you fully expected me to continue on without you?” Sherlock pulled John’s letter from the book of poetry he was holding and held it up for John to see. “I don’t see the logic in that.”

“Christ,” said John upon seeing the letter. Sherlock must’ve retrieved the book of poetry from the flat to read to him and discovered the letter. “Yes, well as I said – the world needs you a hell of a lot more than it does me.”

“That may be so,” said Sherlock leaning over to whisper in John’s ear, “but I don’t want to be in a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

John shuddered hearing his words echoed back from moments before. He reached up and grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s tailored shirt and pulled the man to him, kissing him passionately.

When he released Sherlock, John pointed to the book of poetry. “What were you reading? Was that Whitman?”

“Who else?” grinned Sherlock. “It was ‘To a Stranger’, would you like me to continue?”

“I’d rather continue snogging you, but as I’m fairly certain I’ve got the worst breath on the planet right now, I’ll settle for some more Whitman,” said John as he winked at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John a broad smile. The one he only gave to John when they were alone and intimate. “Yes, that’s probably a wise decision.”

“Sod off you git,” said John lightly.

Sherlock sat in the chair next to the bed and opened to the page he’d been reading. Before starting he looked at John and said, “I love you too John.”

John smiled, happier than he’d been in several years. As he listened to the raspy voice next to him he dared to hope once again that he and Sherlock would have their place in the country – he tending his garden and Sherlock tending his bees.

Sherlock began to read,

“Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,  
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me  
as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,  
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,  
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,  
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours  
only nor left my body mine only,  
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you  
take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,  
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,  
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

 

The End (Epilogue to follow)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will also be a short filler story for the time John wasn't spending sitting by Sherlock's side, but instead hunting down a certain M. Aaron Batiness.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve finally come to the conclusion of this part of the story.
> 
> Massive thanks to all of you that have been following along and reviewing. It’s helped tremendously. If you’re reading this on AO3, you’ll note that I’ve made it part of the ‘Mind the Gap’ series as a few of you thought it would be best for people to read my ‘Return to Baskerville’ story first so this one wouldn’t be confusing with regards to John’s “condition”. There will be several more stories for this series that includes the back story I’m working on now called ‘Collateral Damage’. There will also be a John centric story that takes place during the time Sherlock was in a coma.
> 
> John Watson hugs and Sherlock kisses for you all.
> 
> These lovely characters are from the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation of Sherlock coming from those blokes Moffat & Gatiss). I've just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> This epilogue came out a bit longer than I had anticipated, but what can you do when Sherlock and John are having so much fun?

 

Epilogue

2 weeks later

“Mm. Ungh. No. Yes! There! That’s got it. Now push. Ungh! Not there! No, harder Sherlock!”

Hearing John’s grunts and ministrations, Mycroft stopped the raised hand that was about to knock on the door as he stood outside the flat of 221B. John had been home less than a week from the hospital, so it would have been no surprise if he and Sherlock were engaged in sexual intercourse, but without another moment’s hesitation, Mycroft rapped on the door.

“Guh! Mm. Do come in Mycroft!” grunted Sherlock, his full baritone restored from the surgery.

Upon opening the door, Mycroft saw what all the commotion was about. In the kitchen stood a brand new fridge with large writing on that read ‘FOOD ONLY’. With a final shove, John and Sherlock pushed it into place to stand beside the other fridge that was now clearly marked ‘EXPERIMENTS ONLY’.

John let out an exhaustive breath. “Whew! Glad that’s finished.”

“Yes, quite,” concurred Sherlock. “I can’t believe I agreed to help you with manual labour.”

John leaned up to kiss Sherlock on the temple. “It’s because you love me,” said John grinning - clearly jesting.

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes and with all seriousness said, “Yes, my good man…I do.” He then leaned down and kissed John tenderly on the lips.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Yes, Mycroft,” said Sherlock breaking apart from John. “We know you’re still here. _Why_ are you here?”

“Just a few questions to clear up, dear brother, won’t take but a few minutes,” said Mycroft fidgeting with his brolly.

John pulled out a chair at the dining table to sit and waived his hand at Mycroft, “Let’s have it then.”

Sherlock moved to stand behind John, placing his hands on his partner’s shoulders.

John felt both comforted by, and protective of Sherlock in this position. He wondered if Sherlock chose it for that very reason. _Of course he did_ – thought John, the corner of his mouth drifting up at the thought.

“Yes, well first of all I wanted to let you both know there will be no reprisals against Sherlock from the MET regarding your daring escape three years ago.”

“Considering the fact that the real truth came out after Sherlock was shot, I would hope not,” sniped John.

Mycroft tilted his head in a condescending manner. “John, as I told you back then, the Chief Superintendent had every reason to arrest Sherlock. You’re just lucky I was able to get you off as well. Chinning the Superintendent is a major offense, you know?”

“He deserved it,” said John without reservation. “I’d do it again too. The man’s a twat of the first order.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulders, but made no comment.

Pressing forward, Mycroft said, “Tomorrow or the next day I’ll need you to come in to my office, John. Sherlock can come too if you like, but we must get this business with Moran cleared up. You’ve put me off for far too long, and I’ve let it slide because you were dealing with…” Mycroft looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes “…other issues.”

“Yes, fine. All right. Is that all?” John flexed his hand under the table - A movement that did not go unnoticed by the man standing behind him.

“I…,” began Mycroft.

“Yes, that’s all,” said Sherlock – his tone clearly indicating to his brother that there would be no more questions.

Mycroft shifted and started again, “I must be off. See you tomorrow John,” he said as he strode from the flat and down the stairs. “No excuses.”

They heard the door shut as Mycroft left the building and John shook his head. “Sometimes, I don’t know what Greg sees in your brother.”

Sherlock gave John’s shoulders one last squeeze then leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I’m sure Lestrade tells my brother the same about us.”

John chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

Sherlock moved around to face John.

John could tell there was something bothering Sherlock. “Go on then…ask me.”

“How did you figure it out? How did you know?”

John’s face lit up and a grin spread across his face.

“What?” Sherlock’s face was contorted in confusion.

Still grinning like a Cheshire cat John said, “I didn’t know, I _saw_.”

A deep throaty laugh bubbled up out of the great Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, “Oh John, my clever man. Do please tell me what you _saw_.” Sherlock pulled out a chair and sat, enthralled to hear John’s tale.

John proceeded to go into detail about what he’d seen at the warehouse, what he’d found at Moran’s flat, and putting all the other puzzle pieces together regarding the assassins around Baker Street.

“I heard what Molly said to you too, about looking sad, so I knew something was off. All that time you kept trying to distance me from the case and from you. Then there would be times like in the hallway before Moriarty’s trial and the alley after our escape when I knew. All the other was a sham. You were trying to protect me. That night we fled the police, I meant to tell you I’d finally put the last pieces together, but I never got the chance.

“What was that?” questioned Sherlock.

“The Reichenbach painting and the Crown Jewels, remember we couldn’t find the connection?”

“There didn’t seem to be one.”

John nodded, “Yes, but there had to be didn’t there? All the other cases were connected to Moriarty and his crimes.” John got up and moved to the desk in the sitting room. He opened one of the drawers and moved some things around. “Now, where is it? I know it’s here some… AH! … there you are.” John pulled his arm back and in his hand he clutched a small red wrapped package.

Walking back to the kitchen, John shook the package at Sherlock. “Happen to remember what’s in here?” He handed the package to Sherlock.

As he shook it Sherlock seemed to remember. “Yes, of course. OF COURSE!” he exclaimed.  “Brilliant John,” Sherlock said beaming with pride. Standing, he moved around the table to John, “Utterly magnificent.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hands in his own and kissed him deeply. “Diamond cufflinks and crown jewels, how did you ever make the connection?”

“Let’s just say you’ve taught me well, and leave it at that,” said John as he pulled Sherlock into another passionate kiss.

Sherlock’s hand moved to the small of John’s back then under his jumper to rest between the waistband of his pants and John’s skin.

Grinning up at Sherlock, John nestled in closer. “Why, Mr. Holmes. Are you making an advance of a sexual nature?”

“That’s my intention,” said Sherlock a grin playing at his lips. “However, it has been quite some time and I fear I may be a bit out of practice.”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s face dropped and he quickly pulled away from John.

“What the fuck? Sherlock?” John said startled.

“John, I didn’t even think that… in the time I was in a coma… you may have…” Sherlock fought to remain in control of his emotions… “found someone else.”

John snorted, and chuckled as he shook his head.

Completely misconstruing the reaction, Sherlock said, “Yes, well…ahem…that’s fine. I um…” Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to look everywhere else but at the man in front of him. “Of course… Why wouldn’t you? I mean…” his voice trailed off.

“Done now?” John said reaching forward to grab Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock finally looked up, his eyes connecting with John’s.

“You idiot,” smiled John pulling Sherlock forward and crashing against him. “You beautiful, wonderful, amazing idiot,” he said as he ran his hands through Sherlock’s curly tendrils. John pulled gently causing Sherlock’s head to tilt backwards and his mouth to open ever so slightly. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, moving his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip then onward when he opened wider to allow John in. Between delicious kisses, John steered Sherlock back to their bedroom.

Sherlock began undoing John’s zip. “John,” he said – his voice low and purring.

“Oh god, Sherlock – it’s been so long. I thought I’d never hear your voice again. Say my name. Say it again.”

Sherlock put his hands on John’s waist and leaned forward kissing his neck, biting and marking John in several places. He then sucked on John’s earlobe and said, “John, I’m going to have you right here and now.”

John’s head dropped back, “Oh god YES!” he cried.

In one swift movement, Sherlock pulled John’s trousers and pants down, exposing his already wet cock. John removed his jumper, leaving him completely naked in front of Sherlock.

Taking a step back, Sherlock was finally able to get a good look at what their time apart had done to his beloved Watson. Gone was the paunchy middle. Now John was just a bit too thin and his body was littered with scars to keep the one from Afghanistan company. His hair was more grey than the colour of sand, and there was a sadness around John’s eyes that had not been there previously.

“Stop thinking,” grinned John. “You’re putting me off.” John said as he pushed Sherlock onto the bed.

“John,” began Sherlock.

“No,” said John curtly. “Later. There’ll be time later for words. Now, we have this, and only this.” He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and looked down at him. “I love you Sherlock Holmes and have done since the moment Mike Stamford introduced us at Barts. The very moment you _deduced_ me, I knew. There would never be anyone else for me but you.”

Without another word, Sherlock divested himself of his clothing and pulled John on top of him, grabbing his arse and pulling it open slightly so that he could rub his cock along John’s cleft. John groaned. “Mm…fuck yes,” he said as he nibbled on any part of Sherlock he could find. When John reached one of Sherlock’s nipples, it caused him to buck even harder into John’s crack. With glistening pre-ejaculate the only lubricant, the friction was quickly sending Sherlock over the edge.

John was close as well. His cock was trapped between them and with all the thrusting going on, there was a significant amount of wetness on both of their stomachs.

“Sherl OH GOD Yes!” gasped John. “Please take me. Fuck. Take me now.” John was desperate. He had missed Sherlock so much. Never thought they would have this again. He needed Sherlock in the worst way possible. About to plead again, John felt the pressure and the slip of Sherlock’s delicate long finger sliding in. First a bit of resistance, then utter bliss. “Oh, fuck yes,” growled John. “More. I need more. I … Uh… Christ!” he exclaimed as Sherlock’s finger brushed his prostate.

Sherlock pulled back his finger enough to allow others to join it. Moving slowly, Sherlock began to insert his fingers back in, but he was moving too slowly for John who pushed backwards swiftly and engulfed all three of Sherlock’s fingers at once. John’s eyes flew open wide and he screamed, “GODAMMMNNNITT!”  - Tears coming to his eyes at the sharp pain.

Sherlock remained silent and still.

After a moment’s adjustment to the sudden intrusion, John nodded. “All right,” he said breathlessly.

Sherlock began moving his fingers around inside John, stretching him wider, stroking his prostate every so often… but not too often… just enough to keep John frustrated.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re trying to kill mm mm me. Come the fuck on.” John moved forward trying to simultaneously get some friction for his aching cock and a bit more movement from Sherlock’s fingers – _oh god those amazing fingers_ – currently up his arse.

Sherlock rolled John over, taking up one of his legs to rest against his own shoulder.

There was no lube in the flat. There hadn’t been for years. John tried masturbating once or twice in the time after Sherlock had been injured, but it hadn’t felt right without him so John just never thought to have it.  

No matter. Sherlock leaned forward and grasped both his and John’s cock in his hand and stroked, spreading the dewy residue they were both excreting all over his member. Once sufficiently covered he lined himself up with John’s entrance.

A small nod from John let Sherlock know he was ready. As Sherlock gently pushed in, John let out a hiss. “More,” said John through gritted teeth. “In. More. Now. Don’t stop…. Oh god, Sherlock. Don’t ever stop.” John writhed beneath Sherlock, trying to get his partner to move.

Taking the hint, Sherlock pushed in further as he lifted John’s leg a bit higher for a better angle. Pushing in a little more he brushed against John’s prostate sending John over the edge.

“SHERLOCK!” John screamed as ejaculate pumped from his hardened cock.

Grunting, but otherwise making no other sound, Sherlock began to thrust into John harder, striking his prostate each time.

John gripped the sheets tightly as Sherlock continually slammed into him. He never made it back to a flaccid state before his cock began to get hard again. “Oh Christ, yes!”

Another slight shift of John’s leg created all new sensations as Sherlock circled his hips, driving his cock even further into John.

“OH FUCK!” shouted John, his body arched up off the bed as he climaxed for the second time.

White hot flashes of light danced before Sherlock’s eyes as John clenched around him finally sending him into oblivion. “OH GOD YES!!”

After a moment, Sherlock released John’s leg and settled beside him on the bed.

Looking over to Sherlock, John said “I was wondering what it was going to take for you to say something. I didn’t mean to _literally_ not say anything, you know?”

Sherlock rolled on his side to face John. “I knew too.”

John raised an eyebrow, “Knew what? What are we talking about now?”

“That day at Barts. Meeting you. Deducing you. I knew too. How could there ever be anyone else for me but you?”

John smiled as he reached forward to brush a stray lock of hair from Sherlock’s face. “There is no instinct like that of the heart, my dear fellow.”

Sherlock reached his arm over his partner, moving him closer.  “John, you know what quoting Lord Byron does to me. You’ve already climaxed twice. Can you handle more?”

John rubbed up against Sherlock. “Ready when you are.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Once again, huge thanks to everyone for reading. BAMFY! John fic on the way. :)


End file.
